Lsd Lets You In On Something. When

Me And Norman Mailer Have Talked About How Hard It Is In America To Get Better. Especially At Writing.

Then - As He Was Talking - A Set Of Tail-lights Going Past Lit Up Mcmurphy's Face, And The Windshield Reflected An Expression That Was Allowed Only Because He Figured It'd Be Too Dark For Anybody In The Car To See, Dreadfully Tired And Strained And Frantic, Like There Wasn't Enough Time Left For Something He Had To Do.

Memory Whispers Someplace In That Jumbled Machinery.

Alongside The Statement About One Man's Poison Being Another Man's High, One Might As Well Add That One Man's Saint Can Be Another Man's Sore And One Man's Hero Can Turn Out To Be That Man's Biggest Hangup.

We Think We’re In The Present, But We Aren't. The Present We Know Is Only A Movie Of The Past.